History of Magic
by mrscribble
Summary: Ron and Hermione talk through notes in History of Magic about Harry after Dumbledore's death, and come to some ...understandings of their own as well. RHr.


**A/N: **Hey everyone! So this is a very quick update with something that's been sitting around for ages - it was actually a submission for a fic exchange I did at an LJ roleplay community I'm part of. Hope you like it. :)

** History of Magic**

_Are you taking notes?_

Hermione frowned at the slip of ripped parchment before her, looking sideways over at the second-youngest Weasley who sat leaning back in his chair, staring nonchalantly at the ceiling. The bright sun filtering through the dust-speckled windows drew lazy patterns over his half-closed eyes, and his rumpled hair stuck straight upwards at the back of his head, looking rather like a smug peacock.

He was gorgeous.

She immediately banished this thought from her mind, eyes flying guiltily to Professor Binns. Even he seemed more subdued than usual, as of late; his monotone lecture seemed even flatter, and his gestures barely grazed the air before his ghostly hands snapped neatly back to his podium. It would not do, she corrected herself sadly, to be thinking of such matters at this time. With Dumbledore gone, some of the students came to walking the hallways with a lost look in their eyes or grouped in inseparable packs, even the Slytherins huddling closely in tightly-knit groups as the echoing silence reverberated in the halls. Some students, whisked away from Hogwarts by their worried parents, had left the school for good. If the school year passed without any more tragedies, she would be happy enough.

But was he _gorgeous_!

Dipping her quill in more ink, Hermione neatly wrote below Ron's ink-splattered scrawl, _of course I am_. At the last line of the sentence, she crumpled up the note and sent it flying back to land on Ron's desk.

It took her a while to regain concentration on the topic at hand - something about a vampire war - as she listened to the scratches of the quill her object of affection carefully held. It was unreasonable, really, she thought as she wrote the date of Vlad the Impaled-Thrice's final death down on her organized scroll of notes. How did they expect anyone to concentrate on the illustrious History of Magic when Ronald Bilius Weasley was placed beside them in class? Especially with his cute freckles and that look he gave her when she infuriated him...

Shaking her head violently, she pushed the ensuing dirty thoughts from her mind. There were still twenty-four minutes left of Binns lecturing about the 1369 New England Turmoils, and that meant twenty-four minutes she had to keep concentrating. Goodness knew what would happen if she didn't.

The note appeared on the side of her desk again, and this time she read it with a cross frown. Looking up at his hopeful expression, she mouthed angrily, _do it yourself for once!_ His face fell spectacularly and a twinge of regret pinched at her heart. He reached over with a lanky arm and reclaimed the scrap of parchment as she continued taking notes. If she didn't do this, she answered herself, it was quite possible that Harry and Ron would altogether fail in History of Magic, and that wouldn't do. Even if Harry wasn't planning on continuing at Hogwarts - Ron and Hermione had stayed up the following night, talking about Harry's current unwillingness to go to classes. They had a sneaking suspicion of what he was about to try, and neither of them liked it.

Sighing as she glanced sideways at the green-eyed hero seated on the other side of her, Hermione felt another stab at her heart. From third year, Hermione had taken on a maternal role for Harry, and it amazed her to see how much older all three of them had grown, both in age and wisdom. She missed childhood sometimes, missed the naïveté that came with being a Muggleborn witch discovering all the amazing things in the Wizarding world - and the horrifying things, too.

Harry had changed, she knew. He had developed from something utterly innocent, unaware of his status as the world's saviour, to a teenager who bore the fate of the world on his shoulders. When he and Ginny were together, Hermione always felt relieved - the youngest Weasley had something about her that managed to take some of that load off his shoulders - something he needed so much, especially at times like these.

Harry was attempting to write notes, his glasses perched precariously on the tip of the nose just before he roughly pushed them back up. His attempts would do him no good, though, and Hermione smiled at this. Too often had he completely forgotten what the words behind his illegible scrawl meant.

Ron poked her, then, and she whipped her head around to face him, eyebrow raised. He passed her the note again, this time with another line of words sprawling across the expanse of the yellowing parchment.

_Don't tell Harry, alright? I don't think they're going to last._

Frowning slightly, Hermione questioningly added, _Who?_

_Harry and my sister_, came the solemn reply. Ron's expression was now less than carefree, forehead furrowed slightly as he regarded her earnestly.

_Don't you want them to?_ she asked, thoroughly confused by now. Ron had seemed much more than emphatic when he'd given Harry the big-brother speech.

_He's going to try something stupid and be all heroic,_ came the answer, and she sighed. Of course.

There was something about Harry, as she had told him before, she called the saving-people complex. Hermione hadn't seen many teenaged heroes sent to save the world from an evil mastermind before, but it was enough to compare Harry's redeeming qualities with the Gryffindor ideals as well as the rash, thoughtless streak that ran recklessly through his blood. He was destined to defeat Voldemort, they all knew - but even if he wasn't, Harry would always be the first to jump from a safe boat to the crocodile-infested waters below to save someone. And, as was probably going to happen, he was to jump ship from his relationship with Ginny, in order to save her - from injury.

Sighing again, she wrote sadly, _there's nothing we can do about it,_ and passed the parchment back to Ron. He read the message and looked back at her with a strangely determined look displayed on his proud face.

_We can fight with him._

She read it three times over, looking back at him. Ron still had that look on his face. And, she thought, something welling up inside her, he was right. No matter what idiotic, nobly stupid things Harry would ever do in his lifetime, they were both there for him, both there from the very beginning (though Hermione's beginning was a little later than Ron, as a result of the Halloween troll incident). And even if he chose to hurt Ginny by saving her, or hurt himself by letting her go, they'd be there to make sure he'd stay. Make sure he wouldn't hurt the little girl with a crush who had changed to a young woman with an open heart.

_We can._

Ron paused for a second, that slow smile spreading over his face, and added something. _Don't tell Harry, right?_ he wrote.

Hermione nodded to him as she started writing down notes again. She had fully immersed herself back into the world of Fandir the Toothless a few minutes later, the note still tucked under her hand, when he leaned over and took back the note, hand brushing gently against her elbow, and posed a question on the quickly crowding piece of parchment. _Can I ask you something?_

She blinked. Ron had never been one to ask for permission about much at all. _Of course_, she answered, rather puzzled. It must have been something important.

Hermione watched him ruffle through his various sheets of parchment, finally finding a blank sheet and smoothing the wrinkles from it. Ron dipped his quill carefully in a pot of ink, feather moving smoothly as his freckled hand formed words of ink.

It was, she realised, the most concentrated she had seen him since his last chess game, dismally long ago. It was another one of the downsides of the increasingly dark sunsets coming over the horizon: not as much time for play as there seemed to be time for grieving. Yes, Ron had changed too; from an awkward, freckled boy with dirt on his nose to a proud, loyal teenager trying to hold together his best friend. When had everything changed, when had they all grown up so quickly? Trivial things like who liked who and who had Vanished their nose this week had given way in their minds to who was murdered and where was their corpse found.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Ron finished his sentence and passed the sheet to her. Her eyes scanning the words, Hermione made no sense of it for a moment before her mouth opened slightly into a surprised 'o'. It was an utterly illogical request, completely unfitting for their present circumstances, and, actually… quite charming. After all, she considered, they had been transported right into the middle of a raging war of life and death and betrayal – it was a risk that not many were willing to take, though not many were willing to put their lives on the line to help their best friend, either. And, it seemed, as he flashed her a reluctantly braced smile from his desk, he'd finally been able to put it into words.

_Go out with me?_


End file.
